


a moment sudden and stolen

by theycallmeDernhelm (onyourleft084)



Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [10]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: London air raid, M/M, Repetitive lines, World War II, filler scene for episode 3, limited dialogue, non-explicit sex scene, one scene, unbowed unbent unbeta’ed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21529969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyourleft084/pseuds/theycallmeDernhelm
Summary: Crowley is supposed to stop at the curb, open the door, let Aziraphale out. He’s not supposed to follow him onto the sidewalk and see him to the shop door, but he does.It makes Aziraphale grow bold. He has this much: Crowley has rescued him, he’s turned up at just the right moment after years of them not speaking. Why not have more? Around them, as if from miles away, the bombs fall. Bang, bang.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1515578
Comments: 27
Kudos: 166





	a moment sudden and stolen

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this line from The Royal Tenenbaums: “I think we’re just gonna have to be secretly in love with each other and leave it at that.”

One time, during the Second World War, as bombs fall all around them, a miracle saves that which Aziraphale cherishes the most. It’s in the midst of all the rubble and clutching the armful of books that he realises there is one thing he cherishes even more than that.

Crowley- Anthony- drives him home. In their complacency they know the bookshop will remain standing, even after whole sections of London fall to ruin. They haven’t danced this dance for centuries, but they know the steps all the same. They know the kind of distances they need to step around each other. But things go a little differently tonight.

Crowley is supposed to stop at the curb, open the door, let Aziraphale out. He’s not supposed to follow him onto the sidewalk and see him to the shop door, but he does.

It makes Aziraphale grow bold. He has this much: Crowley has rescued him, he’s turned up at just the right moment after years of them not speaking. Why not have more? Around them, as if from miles away, the bombs fall. _Bang, bang._

The rest of the universe has eyes turned elsewhere. Those eyes do not see, do not even bat an eyelash, when an angel moves in to kiss a demon under cover of darkness, even as explosions go off everywhere else. _Bang, bang._ It seems a cheap, cliche way to thank someone for saving your life, but Crowley accepts it without a sound of protest. He squeezes eyelids shut behind dark glasses, clutches the lapels of the angel’s waistcoat in desperate fists. Aziraphale fills his mouth with the taste of Crowley’s and Crowley kisses him back- imagine if kissing, too, had to be rationed like everything else in this war. They break off, collide again. _Bang, bang._

He should be leaving by now, thinks Crowley. He shouldn’t have even gone this far. But for all he is, or has been, the wily tempter of Eden, he’s never been able to resist Aziraphale. So all he says is, “Angel,” the word sweet and honest on his tongue where Aziraphale’s already been, and it’s all they need to move forward.

Aziraphale fastens one hand on the latch and one hand around Crowley’s tie and he opens the door as he drags the demon in. The bombs fall as the door slams. _Bang, bang._

These are new steps to the dance, but Crowley rolls with it, trusting Aziraphale to lead. Soon enough his angel is stripping the sleek layers of his suit off him, the tie and sunglasses and fedora dropping one by one on the dusty floor. There are no words, only silence, so when the items fall they seem to echo. _Bang, bang._

Hands. They are so warm. Crowley’s reptile skin shudders, craving for more. Aziraphale moves slowly, tentatively, guided by instinct and by well he knows Crowley by now, and it seems like such a simple thing. Crowley holds his tongue. He shan’t complicate it with questions or comments now. Aziraphale’s hands and lips are trembling, even as every touch unravels Crowley further and further till he’s nothing but a stuttering mess. He can’t remember at which point his knees have buckled, taking both of them down. “Oh dear,” sighs Aziraphale, as they sink to the floor, stirring dust, awkward limbs hitting hardwood boards- _bang, bang._

 _It’s okay,_ Crowley says without words, sliding long legs around Aziraphale’s hips and sinking fingers into his hair, oh so soft and silky. _It’s okay, Angel._ He wants to say it, and more- wants to tell Aziraphale how madly in love he is with him, how glad he is to have saved him just in time, but the words are kissed from his throat and come out a strangled moan. That’s okay, too. Slender fingers undo the buttons of a waistcoat, a blue shirt, slide them off of plump, pale shoulders. When Aziraphale presses back against him Crowley is acutely aware of their hearts working up a frenzy, because _fuck_ , this should not be happening.

But it is. Listen to the heartbeats, pushing them through this no matter what. _Bang, bang._

The night is long, soaking into the fabric of eternity like spilled wine. In this bubble of a moment Aziraphale loses himself to his demon, all consequences be damned. Can you blame him, with Crowley’s hair in his hands? Can you fault him for how good this feels? He’s still trembling, less with apprehension, more with pleasure. Crowley presses his lips to the pulse point on Aziraphale’s throat, drinks up the sound like a parched serpent at a river. God, his pulse is hammering. _Bang, bang._ Legs tangle and fingers entwine. They move against each other like they’re learning more steps to this strange, sudden dance.

Outside, of course, the war goes on. Planes whistle through the night sky. Bombs fall. _Bang, bang._ On the floor of a bookshop an angel and a demon are wrapped in an unholy embrace. The angel feels a little wicked. The demon feels like giving good. _Bang, bang._ Crowley’s mind is in a fritz now, a radio picking up nothing but static. “How do you know me so well, Angel?” he manages to laugh, and Aziraphale blushes. The books that were saved topple off the arm of the sofa where Aziraphale has left them. They hit the floor, _bang, bang,_ but the angel doesn’t even look up.

He’s got both his hands and his mouth full.

To be fair, neither of them really knew what to expect from this. They dare not admit that- not that they can, speechless as they are from the encounter. Some of it hurts, but that’s forgiven by how good, how right, the rest of it feels. Crowley realises he’s missed Aziraphale something fierce, so much that the feeling had settled into a familiar ache in his bones, and it is only by lying here, clothes abandoned, holding the angel that the ache is soothed away.

At some point the night fades into day. At some point the raid ends, but the bombs leave their echoes, _bang, bang._ Covered in sweat, covered in Crowley, Aziraphale wants to feel shame. He’s a principality and he’s supposed to protect the humans, be a good little employee- and he had been, up till now when he decides to be good for one person only, for just one night.

Crowley knows. He’s not supposed to be here, in Aziraphale’s bookshop, much less in his life, in his arms, in between his legs. It may be too late, he’s already in the angel’s heart. But he gathers enough grace and courage to be the one to sit up first.

“I think I’d better go,” he says quietly, in the smoky, grey dawn light that filters through the half-shut windows. The words slam regretfully against Aziraphale’s heart. _Bang, bang._

“I suppose so,” says Aziraphale. He’s agreeing with Crowley, but it sounds more like a betrayal.

The demon leaves a lingering, sunset-bronzed look with him before getting up off the floor in a sinuous movement and gathering together his things. Aziraphale does the same. Neither uses a miracle to put their clothes back on, easing themselves out of the moment slowly and carefully and deliberately. The same way they had sunk into it in the first place.

Finally Crowley stands by the door, one hand on the knob, and Aziraphale notices his tie isn’t quite all the way done and he blurts out “Here,” and he reaches out again to straighten it, and something fond and tender flashes in Crowley’s eyes. Nobody has ever done that for him, not that he’s ever let them.

“Thanks,” he says, and clears his throat. “Um. I missed you, Angel. That’s all.”

“I missed you too,” comes the quiet reply.

They’re not going to talk about it. That’s not how their dance goes. Freestyling was fun, sure, but now they have to get back into the classical routine. 

_Yet here is something neither of them know. A century, or almost a century, will pass, marked by brief encounters and fleeting reunions and, on one occasion, a thermos of holy water. They’ll find themselves back together again, braced against one another for support as the world prepares to end around them. The experience binds them- no, it reminds them how they are bound, by deals and agreements and past moments that can’t bear being spoken of and the love that has been held between them since the very beginning. That bond is what saves the world._

Crowley puts the sunglasses on. “Well. Back to missing you, I guess.”

At least that makes Aziraphale laugh, even if it is a sad laugh. He gets the door forCrowley and lets him leave.

“Mind how you go,” is all he says, when the demon saunters back to the Bentley, untouched on the curb. “It’s a war out there.”

The sound of Crowley’s barking laugh at this joke stays with him for months afterward.

And then the engine starts and the car rumbles away, and Aziraphale goes back into the shop, and the door closes behind him, a thud that echoes. _Bang, bang._

He’s all alone again, surrounded by nothing but books and memories and the creeping fear of what will happen if somebody, anybody, finds out. Aziraphale would cry if he didn’t feel so damned empty.

_But here is another thing that neither of them know, not yet. One day they get to save that which they cherish the most. A promise of forever. Matching gold rings. A cottage filled with books and with plants and with love. One day it will be theirs to keep._

_Right now, however, in the space left by one another, there is nothing but silence._   
  


**Author's Note:**

> Unbowed, unbent, unbeta’ed as always. @ me on Twitter: @stan_gaiman


End file.
